


That’s Love

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst Lite™, Aziraphale knows better, Dialogue Heavy, Drunk Rambling, Drunk confessions, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Semi-established relationship, The human fucking experience, character conversation, crowley being in his feelings, definitions of love, just guys talking about their feelings cause we need that??, love languages I guess, one scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 17:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21085400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: ‘ It lies in the simple gestures. It always does. When Aziraphale points them out- Crowley opening the car door for him, then the bookshop door- the demon scoffs and says, self-assuredly, “Angel, whatever this is, it’s not love.” ‘Aziraphale guides Crowley toward a realisation.





	That’s Love

It lies in the simple gestures. It always does. When Aziraphale points them out- Crowley opening the car door for him, then the bookshop door- the demon scoffs and says, self-assuredly, “Angel, whatever this is, it’s not love.” 

Aziraphale knows better. He’s the angel, after all.

“Then what is it?” he asks, a tease in his voice. They already have good amount of drink in them, and Crowley has been running on the thinnest sliver of a miracle to remain sober enough to drive them home from dinner.

“It’s, oh. Friendship, of course.” He makes a face and follows Aziraphale into the back room. “Habit.” He puts a hand on the angel’s arm to steady himself, notices what he’s done even as the alcohol starts to cloud his focus. “Uh. Trust.”

“Mm,” is all Aziraphale says. They sink into the couch. Crowley sprawls, one arm dragging Azirphale close. Used to be it was Aziraphale in one chair, Crowley in the other. After they thwarted Armageddon, they started sharing the sofa. Aziraphale on one end, Crowley on the other. Drawing closer and closer together until eventually you could swear they’d melted into one person.

(Plenty of stuff had happened on that sofa by now. And in the back of the Bentley. And on top of the table in Crowley’s study. Stuff that also happened in their beds, but not as often.)

Aziraphale said as much, pointing those things out as well. “That’s not what people who are just _friends_ do,” he says.

“Fine,” says Crowley. “It’s desire, then. Temptation, just because I can.”

“You make it sound so tawdry.”

“Maybe it’s love on your end,” says Crowley. His voice trails off into a mumble as he looks away. “Can’t be on mine. Demons can’t love.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t. ‘Cause if I could, Angel, I’d love you back.”

Lesser beings would take offence at this, the idea of not being loved so abhorrent and devastating, perhaps an indicator of their own shortcomings.

Of course, Aziraphale knows better.

“You don’t feel what I feel, then?” The angel murmurs against Crowley’s jawline.

“Don’t know what you feel,” says Crowley stubbornly.

“This warmth, I suppose you could describe it.” Aziraphale laces their fingers together. A tiny miracle this is, how Crowley’s fit perfectly between his. “This sense of wholeness.”

“Blame your physical corporation. Chemicals in your brain. ‘S what human bodies _do_. But I don’t think it’s love.”

“Then, pray tell, why did you walk across consecrated ground for me?” asks Aziraphale. “Why did you break me out of the Bastille? You didn’t have to do any of those things.”

His arm curls around Crowley’s narrow waist. The demon squirms, “Couldn't just leave you like that. Get embarrassed and untime-ly-ly discorporated, not when we had a deal going on.”

“Uh-huh?” says Aziraphale, just vaguely encouraging, like he’s listening to a halfway-verbal four year old recount an entirely imaginary series of events. He slings both legs over Crowley’s lap, begging, just _begging_ to be cradled. “And what about when you asked me to run away with you? Twice?”

“I was scared. Aziraphale. I did dumb, scared shit; I said dumb, scared shit. I couldn’t very well go off by myself after everything we’d been through.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “You see. That’s love.”

“Pssh. It’s not. Just because I care doesn’t mean it’s love.”

“So you agree with me. You do care.”

“‘Course I do,” says Crowley brazenly, words slurring. “I care about you, Angel. _Heaps_. Because you care about me,” he adds. “Returning the favour.”

“Mm-hmm,” is all Aziraphale says. He rubs a finger into the V-neck of Crowley’s shirt in gentle, circular motions.

“You’re supposed to care ‘bout me,” Crowley continues, “‘cause that’s what angels do. Yes? Well d-demons can’t love. So this’ll have to do. Whatever this counts as. Friendship.” He runs a hand through Aziraphale’s hair playfully.

“Remember last week, when you heard me talking to that customer who seemed a little too friendly?” Aziraphale goes on.

Crowley makes a grating sound in the back of his throat. He recalls a woman’s toothy smile, eyelashes batted in Aziraphale’s direction. A high-pitched laugh at a comment that wasn’t all that funny, and the scent of human infatuation. “Jealousy.”

“Because you love me,” says Aziraphale with his most bastardous grin.

“Because I’m selfish,” Crowley grins back, proud of his own demonic vices, “and I want you all to myself. Demons don’t share.”

The angel swats him lightly on the arm with the back of his hand. “You share things with me all the time.”

“It’s loyalty,” insists Crowley. “It’s...looking after your own.”

“Your own, yes.” Aziraphale nuzzles Crowley gently. The tip of his nose drags gentle lines up and down the demon’s skin. “What else?”

“I’m annoyed to the point of lunacy with you sometimes. But I also think you’re cute. And I admire you.”

“Do you, now,” murmurs Aziraphale.

“I think you’re clever,” Crowley says, his voice creaking from the alcohol like an old see-saw. “I like that we’re different but we get along. We work good together. We _are_ good together. That’s trust.”

“Go on.” Aziraphale lifts the sunglasses from Crowley’s face. The demon blinks, eyes like embers in the glow of the lamps that surround them.

“Er,” says Crowley. “I like it when you read to me.” That elicits a chuckle from Aziraphale. “I like listening to you talk, though sometimes you can talk to death. I like irritating the fuck out of you and driving fast enough to freak you out and and I like- giving you what you like.” He watches Aziraphale sit up gently, angling their bodies so he can look at Crowley better. “I guess I like touching you. I like that you like me touching you. I wanna be the only one who gets to touch you, ‘kay?”

“Yes,” agrees Aziraphale tenderly. He kisses Crowley’s forehead.

Crowley goes on, trying to keep some semblance of sobriety. “I’ll give you anything and everything you want. I just want you to be happy, ‘s all. I. Uh. Wanna be the one to make you happy.”

“My dear, you already do.” Aziraphale’s movements are smooth and gentle as he kisses Crowley’s face, tilting the demon’s head back. Tufts of red hair spill between his fingers.

“That’s good. Um,” Crowley manages to say. “Maybe- maybe issss not enough?” He sucks in his lips, trying to keep the hiss out of his voice. Definitely on the slow slide down to piss-drunk now. “If I can’t love. Maybe I can, I can, oh, protect you,” he adds, almost desperately, as he remembers the very shelves that surround them going up in flames. “I- I’d do anything to do that. Keep you safe. Yeah...I just want you safe.” And he’s murmuring this, almost sobbing it, in Aziraphale’s ear, and the angel gathers him close, soft and reassuring against Crowley.

“I know, darling, I know.”

“Can’t imagine a world without you.” Oh no, he’s off the deep end now. He tries to hold back the emotions that threaten to spill out of him before they can land, messy and frightening, on Aziraphale’s lap. This is not something Crowley does. This is not something demons should do. “Like, think of me without you. It’d be a car without any damn brakes, is what it’d be. I’d g-go careening off in all sort of awful directions, setting fires wherever I go- “

“Nonsense,” says Aziraphale firmly.

“You- make being here- on Earth- worth it,“ Crowley hiccups. “You make me happy too, Angel. E-even when I’m not s’posed to be.”

“Crowley, my dear, don’t talk like that, please,” whispers Aziraphale, almost begging. “You deserve it, you know that? And it gives me such great pleasure to be one who makes you happy. Just think,” he smiles, “what would I do without you?”

“I like that you need me,” whispers Crowley. “Because I need you. You’re the only thing that’s ever made a hundred percent goddamn sense, a hundred percent of the time.” He reaches up to clutch Aziraphale tightly, a drowning man. “The only person that could ever. I dunno. Love me.”

“Hey,” says Aziraphale, and he kisses a tear out of the corner of Crowley’s eye, and that’s how Crowley realises that he’s crying.

“Fuck’s ssssake,” he hisses. “I’ve had too much to drink, Angel. I feel like a puddle of goo. It’s gross.”

Aziraphale chuckles. His eyes are bright, and his smile is wise and bittersweet as if he has been waiting for Crowley to arrive at an answer to a question he has known for a long time.

“No, Crowley,” he says softly. “It’s love.”

Crowley looks up at him. His eyes are liquid amber now. It occurs to Aziraphale that he’s not been looked at like that in centuries. Not since his last angelic appearance to humanity, shepherds in a field under the light of a brightly burning star. There is hope and awe and wonder written across it, and love, love, love. Once again he touches the demon’s face, holding his chin lightly between finger and thumb.

“Aziraphale,” whispers Crowley.

“Tell me one more thing,” encourages Aziraphale, “anything that will help you believe it.”

“I...want to be the only one that you want.”

“You are,” says Aziraphale, like a hymnal refrain. “And always have been.”

Crowley feels his entire body relax, slacken against Aziraphale like a dropped marionette. Foreheads touch and soon enough, so do lips.

This kiss is different, Crowley thinks. It tastes different. Maybe it’s just his imagination.

“See, my dear? You can,” assures Aziraphale when they pull apart, “you _do_ love. I’ve felt it for- oh, as long as I can remember, now.”

“Is that what it was?” asks Crowley. “The whole time?”

“Yes,” laughs Aziraphale. “The whole time.”

Crowley actually covers his face with his hands. “I’m pathetic.” But he joins Aziraphale in laughter anyway, and it’s the most beautiful thing, the angel thinks, to see him laughing through his own tears when he hadn’t, not really, been this emotional before.

So, thinks Crowley, in the breathlessness that comes after sobbing and laughing and kissing and drinking too much, that’s love, then. It feels, indeed, like a puddle of goo. But it also feels no different to the friendship, the trust, the desire, the loyalty, the jealousy and the worry that has always influenced Crowley wherever his angel is involved. Was love a combination of those things, or were those things a result of loving someone?

He lets go of the questions, just this once. He thinks, instead, of opening doors for Aziraphale; of giving him whatever he wants, of frustrating and squabbling with him, of being searingly, zealously, ridiculously proud of him, of holding him and never having to let go.

And Crowley thinks, If that’s love, then I’m not half bad at it.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, idk if this made any sense or not. I wrote the ending half asleep and couldn’t get it to be any better so Here We Are
> 
> Anyways, I’m on Twitter as @stan_gaiman if anyone wants to be in their feelings with me, too


End file.
